Bad Boy Valentine (8 page)

B
ack in her
grandmother’s apartment—
her
apartment, though it was still so hard for her to think of it that way—Kate slammed Gran’s big metal mixing bowl onto the counter and dumped in the flour and baking powder. Even after all this time, she didn’t need to measure anything; she could make the recipe in her sleep
and
blindfolded.

They’d always been Jagger’s favorite, her Chai Spice Love Bites. The ones he’d asked about tonight and she’d deflected, pretending to be clueless. But what could she have said?
No, I haven’t made them since you left. They reminded me too much of you, of everything we lost. I can’t even make a chai latte for a customer without thinking of you.

The night he got arrested, she’d stayed up past sunrise making batch after batch, passing the time as she waited for his return, ignorant to his plight. Even after his uncle showed up later that morning with the news—Jagger was in jail, didn’t want to see her—she still held out hope. But then he’d refused to see her, refused to even glance her way at the arraignment. After his sentencing, after he’d been shipped off, she’d tried to visit him in prison, and still he refused her. She held out hope anyway, telling herself he just needed time. Space. Weeks turned to months turned to years, and Kate kept on baking those damn chai cookies. It was as if she thought they’d somehow magically reach him, bring him back to her—like he’d just walk through the door one day, gather her into his arms, and ask if the cookies were still warm.

But as it turned out, the cookies weren’t so magical after all, and every single batch had ended up in the garbage; eating them would’ve been too painful.

By the third year, long after she’d moved back in with her grandmother, long after she’d lost contact with Jagger’s uncle, she finally stopped making those godforsaken cookies.

Until tonight.

She didn’t know what strange, mysterious force had called her to make them now, but she went with it, creaming the butter and sugars, adding in the spice mixture. The comforting scents of cardamom, ginger, clove, and cinnamon calmed her, and soon she settled into the familiar rhythm of mixing, scraping, stirring, shaping. By the time she put the first batch on the baking stones in the oven, she was done crying. Second batch, she was even humming a little tune. And by the time all of the cookies were out on the cooling racks, the whole kitchen smelled like chai tea, and Kate was feeling okay again.

Baking had always been her elixir, her cure-all.

Just like it had been for her grandmother.

She thought of Gran now, of all the heartache the woman had endured—losing her husband to cancer at a young age. Losing her daughter to addiction. Raising a granddaughter who didn’t want to be tamed as a teenager, and then later, taking her in once again as an adult, after her life with Jagger had fallen apart.

Gran had picked Kate up off the floor and dusted her off more times than she could count. She’d taught her how to be strong. How to be independent. And she’d taught her how to bake.

“Sometimes you need a good cry,” Gran used to say. “And sometimes you just need to put a damn cake in the oven and get over it.”

It was good advice, and in the years since Jagger had left, it had helped save Kate from the worst of her heartache and despair. Eventually, it led her to launch her dream business, saving her from a meaningless, passionless career.

But anger? Nothing could’ve saved her from that.

Jagger had made her angry all over again tonight—infuriated her. His words still twisted in her gut, making her feel hot and itchy, pathetic. She knew it was ridiculous, but seeing Jagger shut down and pull away so quickly, hearing him voice his doubts so soon after what they’d done together… God, it was awful. It felt like losing him all over again. Like he’d decided, once again, she wasn’t good enough. Not for him. Not for the truth.

It brought back all the old feelings, the very bedrock of her anger.

Of course she was livid with him for getting arrested, for throwing his life away, for sidelining all of their plans, for refusing to let her in after everything went down. But Jagger had it all wrong tonight. Deep down, it wasn’t the fact that he’d gone to prison. They could’ve worked that out. She would’ve waited for him if he’d given her any indication that he’d wanted her to.

No. When it came right down to it, the thing that had upset her most about that night—the thing that had kept her awake for months and even years after—was that she’d wanted him so, so badly to stay with her, but he hadn’t.

He’d picked
them
—Rage and a bunch of asshole guys he didn’t even know all that well—over her. And that one choice, that one decision… it had altered the course of both of their lives forever.

She’d never get over it.

She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. Because without that anger, that silent rage and resentment that had fueled her all these years, what else did she have? Who was Kate Molina if not the woman who’d been left behind?

Stop the pity party, girl. You’re a graduate of NYU. You’re the woman who built a bakery from the ground up. Who scored a highly coveted event with a major corporate sponsor that will do wonders for the business. Who has a fiercely loyal best friend, an apartment she can actually afford, a grandmother whose legacy of love lives on.

And you’re the woman who’s still in love with Jagger Barnes.

The thought struck her like lightning—a bright, shocking flash.

Love?

Yes, she was still attracted to him. Yes, she still felt…
something
for him, a thing that lurched in her chest whenever he walked into the bakery or said her name, and lurched again whenever he left.

But… love? How was that even possible? The Jagger she used to know and care for didn’t even exist anymore. He was a twenty-four-year-old
kid
back then, for the love of God.

But maybe that Jagger had never really existed, either—not exactly as she’d always assumed. Obviously, she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought back then.

Kate had accused him of running away, but ultimately, she’s the one who let him leave. And whatever issues had led him to commit the crime in the first place—whatever he couldn’t talk to her about back then—well, there was a reason for that, too. She played a role in it, whether she wanted to admit it or not. It had always been easier to blame him all these years because he’d been convicted of a crime. Bad. Obvious. Black-and-white. Cut-and-dried. When it came to the ending of their relationship, he was clearly the offender, and she was clearly the wronged party. Case closed. Right?

Kate popped a warm cookie into her mouth and closed her eyes, letting the spicy, buttery deliciousness melt on her tongue.

How naive I’ve been.

She popped another cookie into her mouth and dusted the sugar off her hands. It seemed obvious to her now, but for the first time in her life, she was truly starting to accept that there were a
whole
lot more layers and facets to the story of Jagger and Kate. Tip-of-the-iceberg things she’d only just begun to contemplate.

She’d been trying to get over Jagger, trying to move on for years. But she couldn’t. Not without knowing the truth. And not without understanding and accepting her own role in it. Without that truth, she’d always be obsessed with the unknown, the what-ifs that had plagued her ever since she’d woken up at three a.m. that night eight years ago, knowing something was dreadfully wrong.

With renewed determination, Kate boxed up the rest of the cookies, changed her clothes, and called a cab.

“Red Hook,” she told the driver. “As fast as you can get me there.”

J
agger was dead inside
.

A hot shower hadn’t helped. Neither had a cold one. He couldn’t even be bothered to crack open a beer or click on the TV at his uncle’s place. He just yanked on a pair of sweatpants, dropped his ass into the old recliner in the living room, and sat there, staring at the fuckin’ wall.

How did things go south so fast tonight?
He replayed the entire day, the night, the whole week on an endless loop, trying to figure out why he kept fucking things up. He’d had Kate in his arms tonight, right there in the big bakery kitchen, warm and soft and ready, and he let her slip away because he couldn’t handle his shit.

Just like before. Repeating the same bullshit mistakes.

It was a fluke that they’d even crossed paths again. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. But it did, and he’d gone right ahead and screwed it up again. Added more stress to her life. More pain.

Even now, he should’ve been back at Sweet Bliss, working on that renovation to get it done in time for her. But he couldn’t face it—not tonight. He’d bolted out of there right after she did, barely remembering to lock up behind him.

Useless. Worthless. Good-for-nothing.

The words taunted him. No matter how hard he’d worked to stay out of trouble in prison, to learn his trade, to find work, he still felt like a sack of shit. Totally impotent, cursed to disappoint everyone who ever gave a shit about him.

They should’ve just locked my ass up for life, left me there to die alone.

H
ours later
, a soft knock jolted Jagger out of his morbid thoughts. He’d dozed off in the chair, and now his muscles were stiff and uncomfortable, his head in a damn fog.
Beautiful
.

Not bothering with a shirt, he got up and stretched, then squinted out through the peephole in the door at the front of the apartment, ready to tell the solicitor to take a hike.

But it wasn’t a solicitor at all.

Kit-Kat…

He yanked the door open, trying unsuccessfully to hide his surprise. Seeing her standing in the hallway of his uncle’s apartment building… it was surreal. His mind shot eight years into the past, then snapped back again. The whole thing was giving him whiplash.

“Kate?” he asked, still not trusting his eyes. For all Jagger knew, he was dreaming.

She was biting her bottom lip, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. Aside from the flour streaked across her forehead, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

She looked about as lost as he felt.

“Kate?” he said again.

“I know,” she said, finally turning those blue eyes his way. “It’s weird with us. I don’t want it to be weird.” Shoving a white box into his hands, she said, “I sort of… made these for you.”

Ooooh-kay…

He invited her inside and peeked out into the hallway, sure he’d see a camera crew from the latest prank show. But it was empty and gray as always, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, nothing to see but black doors shut tight on all sides. Across the hall, he heard the Wilsons battling again—nothing new there.

Jagger kicked the door shut and turned to face his visitor. She was standing in the middle of the living room, taking it all in, her mouth open, probably just as tripped out as Jagger. Kate hadn’t been here since Jagger had lived here the first time, more than ten years ago now, and the place had been severely dated even then. Nothing had changed since. It was like a museum to Uncle Max’s glory days of 1980s bachelorhood—black leather couch and chair, cheap and faded. Glass-topped coffee table and end table with brassy gold legs. Framed poster of a red Ferrari Testarossa taking up the entire wall over the sofa. Every time Jagger walked into the place, he heard the
Miami Vice
soundtrack in his head.

In his hands, the bakery box felt heavy and warm, and smelled like absolute heaven. He knew at once she’d made the chai cookies—he could smell the strong spices—but he didn’t want to open the box, too afraid that it meant something, her baking these.

But more afraid that it didn’t.

He set the box on the kitchen table carefully, then turned back to face her, keeping his face neutral. She was equally unreadable.

It was a long, awkward moment before either of them spoke again, and when they finally broke the silence, it was at the exact same time.

“Sorry I—”

“I didn’t mean—”

Jagger sighed. “Ladies first.”

“Okay.” Kate sat on the couch, clutching her purse in her lap. She’d changed out of her torn shirt and had on a light pink sweater with a loose neck that kept sliding down off her shoulder. No jacket, no bra. The whole thing was driving him crazy. “I just thought we should… you know. Talk.”

He nodded, sitting down on the couch next to her.

Finally letting go of her purse, she kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs up underneath her, knees brushing Jagger’s thigh as she turned to face him.

Kate didn’t say anything, just watched him, eyes trailing down over his face, his chest, his abs, her fingers tugging at the bottom edge of her sweater. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and then she closed her eyes, still not saying a damn word.

Jagger couldn’t decide whether he wanted to kill her, or kiss her.

“What do you want from me, Kit-Kat?” he finally said. His throat felt tight and scratchy. “If I knew, I’d give it to you. I swear it.”

She nodded, her brow creased in concentration. When she opened her eyes again, she seemed ready. For what, Jagger had no fuckin’ clue, but this was her show. For once, he’d let her make the rules.

“I want to know what happened that night,” she said firmly. Gone was the nervous energy. The uncertainty. Right now, sitting on his uncle’s old-ass couch in the middle of the night in Red Hook, Kate Molina meant business. “No running away. No dodging. Just answers.”

Jagger stretched his arm out behind her and leaned back against the cheap leather, closing his eyes. Of
course
it would come down to this. The minute he’d seen her in the bakery that first day, he’d known it would.

Honestly, he’d known it was coming since the moment it happened.

He could only run for so long.

He owed her an explanation.

“Okay,” he said. “Just… just give me a minute.”

He’d never had to tell the story out loud. He’d been caught red-handed, all the evidence right there on the security cameras—a nice little package for the judge, all tied up with a bow. His court-appointed lawyer had coached him through a series of yes-and-no questions, which he answered honestly, as instructed. The nuances of his story hadn’t mattered to the cops, the court, his uncle, the victim. The ending was the same either way.

But now it mattered. Kate wanted to know. No more running, just like she’d said.

“First you gotta know… Leaving you that night?” Jagger shook his head, unable to open his eyes. “That’s my biggest regret. You were right—I should’ve fuckin’ stayed. That shit has haunted me for years. It haunts me still.”

“Me, too,” she whispered.

He didn’t need her to tell him that. He saw it in her eyes, that first day in the bakery and every day since. She’d been eternally haunted by his ghosts. His mistakes. His fuckin’ regrets. All of it had changed her.

Opening his eyes, he saw the weight of his mistakes on her shoulders, in her eyes, and wished like hell he could take it away from her. That was his burden to carry. Never should’ve been hers.

He ran his hand over her hair, cupping the back of her head. “All I know is that if I ever had that shot again, that choice—stay or go? Bet your ass I wouldn’t walk out that door. Not again.”

Kate nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“So Rage and them… they needed a driver. Said they had to go to Bed-Stuy to shake some guy down for a shitload of money he owed them, then get out of there fast, before the dude called in backup. I’d be driving Rage’s car, keeping it running while they did the thing. For my services, I’d be paid five grand. I didn’t ask questions.” Jagger pinched the bridge of his nose, stemming the tide of memories rushing in on him. Jagger, hanging out behind the wheel of Rage’s car in some dank, dark alley in the heart of Bed-Stuy, praying he wouldn’t get shot. Rage, Paulie, and Dax, slinking into some old warehouse through the delivery doors. Ten minutes later, those guys bursting out of the same delivery doors, bolting for the car with a duffle bag full of cash. Rage’s hands swollen, cut, covered in blood—not his own.

Jagger told her about all of it.

“Turns out,” he said, “they weren’t just shaking some guy down to collect a debt. It was an import-export operation—totally legit—and they were robbing the place. They had two inside guys waiting for them. They all hooked up, jumped the fuckin’ night shift guys. Left them both for dead.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. He had no idea how much of the story she already knew, whether she’d heard anything from his uncle, or from any of the other guys’ girlfriends. He didn’t think so—his uncle was a vault, and Kate had never liked Rage and that crowd, so it was unlikely she’d been getting together with the girlfriends to commiserate after it all went down.

She swallowed hard, her eyes still wide and glassy. “Did the night shift guys… did they…”

“No, baby. They lived. Broken ribs, concussion, stuff like that. Both made full recoveries and testified against Rage and the others in court. I didn’t even know about them until later,” he added, even knowing how completely bogus it sounded. He didn’t know until his lawyer informed him, because he hadn’t bothered to ask questions that night. Rage had just burst into the car, bloody and frantic, screaming at him to drive.

So Jagger drove.

They got maybe ten minutes away from the warehouse when the red-and-blue lights lit up his rearview. Rage told him to gun it, and he listened—that was about the hundredth fatal error he’d made that night. Cops caught up with them in five minutes flat.

“I didn’t know about the guys they beat, and I didn’t know about the drugs in the car, either. Or the guns.” But Jesus, he should’ve. He should’ve known exactly what he was getting into. No, fuck that. He should never have gotten into it in the first place. He knew Rage wasn’t legit, but he’d convinced himself the driving job would be fine. In and out. Money the warehouse guys
owed
to Rage and hadn’t paid up. Fair is fair, right?

Ha. What a chump.

In the end, they nailed him for armed robbery, unlawfully fleeing a police officer, and some other shit he couldn’t even remember now. Since he wasn’t involved in the assault of the two men, and Rage admitted to owning the illegal guns and the drugs, Jagger’s sentence was the lightest of the four. He’d managed to keep his nose clean in jail, save for a few scuffles, and got out on parole, landing a job with Callaghan just a few months before setting foot in Sweet Bliss.

He filled Kate in on the rest of the details.

For a long time after he finished the story, Kate didn’t say anything. Tears spilled silently down her cheeks, but Jagger didn’t push—just let her sit with it, his fingers tracing light patterns on her shoulder.

Eventually, she wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. She inched a little closer to Jagger, resting her knees on his thigh.

“Your uncle told me that you wouldn’t accept a plea deal,” she said softly. “Why?”

Jagger shook his head. “I did the crime. I owed the time. Far as I’m concerned, they could’ve sent me up for life. I’d already lost everything that mattered, anyway. The minute they slapped those cuffs on me and shoved me into the car, I knew… I knew I’d lost you.”

“You hadn’t, though. That’s the thing,” she said, her voice rising again. “You cut me out without even giving me a chance. Do you honestly think I’d bail on you just because you screwed up and got arrested? Without even hearing your side of the story? That’s how little you thought of me?”

Jagger brushed his knuckles along her jaw, threading his hand into her hair. “No. That decision had nothing to do with you.”

“It had everything to do with me. I don’t even understand why you got involved with Rage and them to begin with. Did you guys do other stuff, too? Did you have this whole criminal life I didn’t know about?”

“Nah, it wasn’t anything like that.” Jagger sighed, lowering his hand from her face. This was the hard part. His instinct was to make something up—tell her Rage had threatened him, or that he’d done it out of loyalty to his friends. But he’d spent enough time lying to himself over the years. He wasn’t about to lie to her, too. Not tonight. Not ever again.

“You’re right, what you said at the bakery tonight. About me running away. I been running a long time, Kit-Kat. Even before I got my ass thrown in jail. The job with Rage… it was a one-time thing. I took it because we needed the money.”

“What are you talking about? You were making decent money with your uncle, and I was working at the bookstore. I mean, I know we weren’t living the high life back then, but we made ends meet.”

Jagger shook his head. They’d had a joint checking account back then, both contributing to it, but he was the one who wrote out the bills every month. He was the one who knew the reality of the situation, but decided to keep it from her. “We were in trouble. Past due on the rent, the bills, everything was closing in on me.”

“What?” Kate’s eyes were wide with shock. “Why didn’t—”

“Because instead of being a man and talking to you about it, instead of trying to figure something else out, I took the easy way out. Rage had a job come up, made me an offer, and I jumped on it, no questions. And I’ll spend the rest of my damn life wishing I’d told him where to shove it. Wishing I’d done better by you.”

Kate got up from the couch and excused herself to the restroom. He thought she might be in there crying, or maybe trying to find something sharp to stick in his gut—God knows he deserved it.

But when she finally returned, she looked calm. She took up her position on the couch again, leaning in close to Jagger. She wrapped her hands around his arm and squeezed.

“Okay. You totally fucked up. And you paid for it dearly,” she said. “But you can’t carry this around yourself anymore. I won’t let you.”